The Chair

Sorry for the long break in posting but it takes a lot of effort to come up with, and then remember a topic when you are living the Neil Diamond life style. However, luckily for me, I just managed to keep it together long enough to remember the fascinating tale I am about to relate. This tale begins with me reading a book, not that exciting I know, and it is something that I do a lot of, but this book (which is wonderful so far) is written by an absolutely wonderful author by the name of Stefan Zweig. If you have not read him (and few of the people I know have) you should rush out and buy anything by him you can lay your hands on.  He is fantastic, he writes sentences that are perfection incarnate. Sentences so wonderfully constructed that it makes you want to weep, or to re-read them over and over again aloud so you get their full effect. 

The book's is called 'The Post Office Girl' and it is quite wonderful so far (I have only managed a couple of chapters), but as I was drinking in Herr Zweig's words like fine wine, I noticed a small blip. It is the kind of blip that usually goes unnoticed, and in fact did go unnoticed (or at least I assume it did for it makes no sense otherwise).  It is a simple blip, and one that we all make, but one that shocked me nonetheless. It was an easy error, Zweig was describing the room that his main character and her aged mother live in, and was describing the furniture, and how the family had fallen on hard times and as a result most of the furniture had been sold off to a junk dealer. Easy enough, and very well written, and descriptive, good tone setting literature.  However, it was during this little passage that I noticed the blip. He describes a chair, an old family 'heir loom' that after being in the family for generations, also had to go the way of the junk dealer. Sold off to help pay the food bills, after all, a girl's got to eat you know.  Then suddenly about a page later, the aged mother, upon receiving some shocking news, falls into a faint. And here lies the rub, where does she land BUT INTO THE CHAIR. The same chair that a page or so ago had been consigned to the junk dealer's second hand shop. There was no mention of it being retrieved from hock, and it was just a simple error on Zweig's part. After all, he was writing wonderful story arcs, what did he care about the mis-mention of a chair from one page to the next? 

Zweig was also writing to pay HIS bills, and I am pretty sure that is a full time occupation, and he probably had several books 'going' at once. I find it hard to READ more than one book at a time, I can't fathom what it must be like to write more than one at a time. I am sure that he didn't notice the slip, and his editor should have caught it, and I doubt I am the first reader to see it as well, but there it is for all the world to see. This is not a criticism of him in anyway, in fact, it is a celebration of his art. It made me very happy to find that mistake, because it made me realize (as an very untalented 'writer') that even fucking geniuses make mistakes. Zweig took his place on my hero podium on his assigned day, and this little blip only makes him more heroic.  As a 'writer' who has been told a couple of times lately that he has talent, but who is full of self-doubt to the point of disbelieve, finding this blip was a godsend. It showed me that sometimes even the best of the best make mistakes, and even with all the editing in the world the mistake is still there.

I have a tendency to put my hero's on higher pedestals that they 'deserve', and I tend to measure myself against them, and being hard on myself, I find that in that measuring I come up very, very, short by comparison. It is a flaw (amongst many) in my character, and I realize it, but have difficulty in repairing it. However, this little 'magic moment' has restored (if that is the right word) a small modicum of self-believe. And self-believe is important it is one of the few things that (in theory at least) the world can't take (or give for that matter) away from you. It is the believe in your 'self' that should fuel your battle against the world. The 'war' we wage each and every day against the world that sometimes seem bent upon our destruction. It is one of the few weapons we possess that allows us to fight off the hordes of people who wish to annihilate us. It is something that is precious beyond price, and something that you should never, ever give up to another living soul. Keep that self-believe, wrap it around you like a cloak of invincibility, and hold on to it like grim death. 

Of course, Zweig is (and will always remain) streets ahead of me in the writing 'race', but I can take some comfort in the fact that he was, in spite of his massive talent, not perfect. Not that he claimed to be, his perfection is just me projecting onto him my wide eyed amazement at his ability to turn a phrase. That amazement remain undiminished despite this little blip in his writing. I am certainly not going to stop reading him, and will probably read even more of his writings, because now that I know he isn't perfect it makes him even more readable, and in many, many ways more human. 

White Blank Page

That blinking cursor that we all know and love is torturing me, it is blinking there at me on this white blank page taunting me, daring me to do something, anything to stop it from driving me mad. We have all, at one time or another, been the 'victim' of that devilish cursor. Just sitting there blinking at us, reminding us that we are bereft of ideas, or at least of the words to give voice to our ideas. It sits there on this white blank page slowly, very slowly, driving us mad. It isn't that I don't have ideas, nor do I lack for words. I am failing miserably in my attempt to become laconic. It is just that the ideas I have, the words I possess are bunged up behind a dam of indifference.

I have a couple of ideas for a blog post or three, but each of them are fraught with peril. I have one that might, if the right people read it, get me fired. That would be no fun, I heard unemployment is not an enjoyable experience. Therefore, that idea shall remain still-born, that post shall remain written only in my head. I have another couple of wonderful ideas that might, if (again) read by the wrong person(s) cost me a couple of friendships.  Since I am not overburdened with many friends, those posts too shall remain unwritten, except in my head. Those ideas shall not see the light of 'day'.  These not so brilliant ideas have to remain in the bookcase of my mind, since I am too big (and not in fat kind of way) of a moral coward to send them out into the wide, wide world.

So in the mean time, that blinking cursor taunts me, daring me to write something detrimental to myself, my career, or my friends.  Since, despite a mountain of evidence to the contrary, I am not a total fucking fool, I have to sit here staring at this white blank page without any idea on how to fill it, or the time before I nod off to sleep.  A dearth of ideas coupled with a yellow streak a mile wide have lead me to the desert of un- imagination.  The good thing, if there is a good thing, about this trip into the desert is that I know there have been many fellow travelers here before me. Great pioneers have tread some of this same sand, and left behind their foot prints for me to follow. Footprints that have already been here for decades, and will be here for decades to come, long after I stagger by in search of my own 'other side.' 

And I hope I will eventually find that 'other side' the side that allows me to 'write' again without fear of unemployment, or angry, angry emails sent to me questioning my sanity, or my fellowship. There is something out there in the middle distance waiting for me, and I can just about make it out. It is hazy, and it isn't very close, but I know it is there, and if I keep on the track of those who have gone before, I know that eventually I will find it. This El Dorado of my mind, the holy grail that holds my imagination is there ever so tantalizingly out of my reach at the moment.  However, I also know not to try to hard to obtain it, because the more I reach for it with my grasping hands, the further it retreats into the desert.  I have to be patient, and I have to remain calm. It is a game of 'nobody moves, and nobody gets hurts' that I am playing with myself, and I certainly do not want to get hurt.  Therefore, I stagger onward into the desert hoping that just over that next hill, or in that next chat I have with a buddy will provide me the key to unlocking the treasure chest of my mind. Let's hope that when I find the key, and open the box it isn't empty.

Incomplete

A lot of things can be incomplete, passes, roads, paintings, books, and people. The good thing about most of those incomplete things mentioned above is we generally know they are incomplete with just a glance. When the ball hits the ground the pass attempt is over, when you run out of asphalt the road is done, the last pages of a book are usually a surefire way to tell if a book is complete, if there is a big white patch on the canvas, then the painting is probably not finished. However, with people it is virtually impossible to tell if they are incomplete until it is too late to do anything about it. 

That was part of the problem with 'number 7' mentioned in the previous post. We all knew him, some of us better than others, and we thought we had a pretty good grasp on his personality. However, as we gathered for that brief, poignant ceremony we realized that we were working with incomplete information. And that is the problem the incompleteness of our information about each other, or anything in the world. We all think, or like to think, that our boon companion, the fellow we have shared so many drunken conversations with, is telling us the (whole) truth. We like to think that he is being as honest to us as we are to him.

After the few of us that were able to attend the farewell left the place it was being held, we went to the local we all used to share, and begin to dissect the tragedy. For that is all you can do, huddle together for 'warmth' or band together against the world, and try to sort out why it all ended in tears. These things do usually end in tears, and you know that (even if you refuse to believe it) on the front end. We sat there on our bar stools (his left empty out of respect), and pondered what it was that he wasn't telling us. We began to realize that he was telling some of us different parts of the truth, but no one of us was getting the whole truth. Perhaps each of us were getting the part of the story he thought we wanted to hear, or the part that he thought we could 'handle.'

He didn't leave some long winded note or ribbon covered diary for us to sort it out for ourselves, and when we drove to the airport to ship him back to the land of his fathers, we just didn't understand why it had to all go so horribly, horribly wrong. Maybe those loved ones that receive him at the other airport understood him better, and maybe one day they will share that understanding with those of us 'left behind'.  The ceremony awaiting him, and those wonderful people is bound to be much lengthier, more poignant, and more personal.

The battlefield of his mind remains an almost complete mystery to us, and I have yet to decided who is more to blame for that. Him, for not trusting at least one of us to throw him the life preserver he needed, or us for failing to realize he was drowning, not waving right in front of our very eyes. Truth to be told, there is probably enough blame to go around, but that certainly does not make any of us feel any better. As for blaming him, it just seems wrong in some fundamental way, but I still do it. I blame him, even if I realize how horrible of a person it makes me seem. I blame him because I can't shoulder all this blame myself, and blaming him is the only way I can cope.

I blame him because I am so fucking angry at him that I can barely see straight. I blame him for having the last word. I like to think that if I could just talk to him one more time, I would shake some fucking sense into him, and I wouldn't be having to type these words.  I am angry at him for taking the talent he possessed (and he had quite a bit of it), and pissing it away. Taking that talent for so many things, some of them quite useful, out of the world with him when he left.  Angry that of all the self centered sons of bitches I know (and I happen to be one of them as well) he chose the obvious way of expressing his self centered-ness. People tell me that 'anger is just a stage' and that I 'will get over it' well, these people obviously underestimate my ability to hold a grudge. 

I shall, till my dying day, remain angry at him, even as I eventually forget him, and if I am around long enough I will forget him. He will stop popping into my head on a daily basis eventually, and I will stop remembering all those drunken chats we had. The details, along with the pain will fade, and he will become another ghost that occupies a small cemetery like section of my mind. A place that I visit less, and less frequently because of the pressures of my day, or because of the pain it causes. A place that eventually I will occupy as well for someone else in my group. But, hopefully not for a good long while, because I think that his choice, while having its allure, was the coward's choice. And even though on many levels, I am a coward, I am not going to give into to that siren's song. I prefer to make the Gestapo like demons of my life fight inch by bloody inch for any ground they gain, and so I will abide. 

Seven

There were seven of us at one time, seven fellows drawn together by fate, bad luck, cheap booze, and a common desire to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. We liked to joke that we were like the seven deadly sins, and even tried to assign one sin to each of us. However, we quickly determined that each of us possessed a fair amount of all seven deadly sins, and we just decided to be what fate had intended us to be. That was a group of fellows that 'were mad, bad, and dangerous to know.' Or at least that is what some of us liked to say after we were a little too far into our cups to form coherent thought. We were a diverse group coming from 3 different countries, and possessing a wide range of backgrounds. Some of us were clever, some of us were smart, and some of us just were a combination of the two.

There was no real leader of the group, we were a bunch of strong willed individuals, and trying to lead this group would have only led to disaster, or to the hospital for the one of us stupid enough to try. There were no real reason for some of us to even be friends, except for the love of drink, and the ability to tell (and listen to) a ripping good yarn.  It was a happy time for all of us, even if some of us were going through some rough times in the 'real' world. That world that existed outside of whichever bar we were gracing with our presence, that world that each of had to totter off to at the end of our wild drinking sessions, that world that contained the day jobs that we each had to hold down in order to pay for our alcohol fueled 'lively times.' And the times were quite lively, we weren't anything special to look at, and I am quite sure that at times we were quite insufferable to the other denizens of our local, but we didn't really care.  We didn't start any bar brawl (but did finish a few), and we paid our tab, and even tipped fairly well. In short, we were rowdy, but not rude, and I am pretty sure at least one of our bartenders bought a new jet ski thanks to our patronage of his establishment.

However, like all good things (and I guess bad things) it couldn't, and didn't last. We were each living on borrowed time, and somewhere down deep inside we all knew it. We knew that whatever fate had banded us together against it, would prove to a fickle bitch, and would eventually pull us apart. We only hoped that it wouldn't be too painful, and that it would take just a bit longer before the wheels started to come off. That is the nature of these types of relationships, all is right with the world for the briefest of moments, and you take the occasional pause to look around you at the six other boon companions you are having such a good time with, and realize one day it is all going to have to end.  You only hope that everyone one survived the ending, and that it is quick, and painless. However, with seven wildly diverse personalities, and seven different gene pools, there is always 'one at every party' that makes things just ever so difficult. This post is (eventually) going to be about that one.


Before we get to that 'one' we have to at least begin to see the, ever so subtle, disintegration of the group as a whole.  None of us really noticed the loosening of the bonds that once held us so tightly together, but it was pretty plain to see. Perhaps the booze made us blind to the obvious decay, or perhaps we just didn't want to come to terms with the obvious. Either way, it was happening whether we cared to acknowledge it or not. It felt sudden, but in fact it was just merely inevitable, and when it came it came with the force of a Mongol Horde. One day we were seven in clover, the next day we were buzzing about the news of one of us 'tying the knot.'  It can happen just that quickly.  We all knew, the one tying the knot most of all, that we were now going to be six. He wasn't dying, but we knew that things just wouldn't or couldn't be the same. After all, if you have six, and a vote is necessary, a 3-3 tie is quite likely to be the outcome, and we had just lost the tie breaking vote. We were, quite rightly, devastated. 

He tried to pretend that things weren't going to change, but we all knew by the shake in his voice, and the look on his face that he was lying. He knew it too, he just didn't want to be the one to say it aloud. We had a fellow for that kind of stuff (not him), and eventually he did get just drunk to say exactly what we were all thinking. "Well, that's him then isn't it?" was the general gist of his summation, and we all knew he was right. But, being stalwarts of the art of comradeship, and drinking, we soldiered on, we even went to the wedding, and afterward placed bets on how long the marriage would last.  Then we were six.

Most things that begin to fall apart do so rather quickly, and once we lost our first man, the others started dropping like flies. One moved away to another state, cleaned up his act, and seems to have found some sort of religion. It is a disturbing image for those of us who knew him back in the day, but he seems to be happy. And I guess happiness takes on many forms, even if we don't understand it, or even approve of it. It was quick, brutal, and necessary, but his leaving was still a blow, and it left it mark on us all. Then we were five.

I supposed after that fate sensed the weakness in the remainder of our happy band, and she begin to lob life changing hand grenades at us like kids in a Halloween water balloon fight.  The next to go decided to try his hand at his own business ( a bar of all fucking things), and while it wasn't too far from us, the remainder just was too deeply in their 'drinking rut' to be bothered going those miles out to the place.  It was not a happy chapter in the history of the group that several of us never even went to the joint to at least have one beer, and catch up on old times.  It is a solid black mark against the survivors that we did not do this simple task, and some of us still feel the shame all these years later. It was a roaring success, this new business, until recently when mother nature (the bitch) decided to drop six feet of water onto the place. It was not pretty, and it proved to be a watery grave for the business. But, that is getting ahead in the story, after he left, we all missed him, and talked about 'going to see him' as if he was in Federal prison, but like I said, we never did. Then we were four.

These 'defections' begin to take their toll, like an infection that just keep getting worse, weakening the host before finally finishing it off. We tried our own brand of 'anti-biotics' by trying to bring other people into the group to replace the ones that had left. That was not a success, we made the mistake of trying to go 'co-ed', and, as expected that was a raging failure. We became really good at failures after a while, and anyone with any brains could see that the death knell had been sounded, it was just the remainder of us that were deaf to the bell's toll. 

The love bug struck down another one of us pretty quickly after we when co-ed, and the blushing bride (really a lovely girl) was one of the females that had crossed our gender line. It was a bitter lesson, and we learned it the hard way. Women have a tendency (without really meaning to sometimes) to complicate things.  It was another wedding that the rest of us were required to attend, and happily enough it is still going strong today. We all are glad about that, and we do not begrudge the couple their perfect life (it is disgustingly perfect in many ways) but there is always that little bit of 'he was ours first you know' feeling that lingers even today. It isn't a pleasant feeling, and it isn't really held with any malice, but it is there none the less. Then  we were three. 

Marriage had claimed two of us and two of us had relocate, so now relocation decided to take the lead. One of us got a job halfway across the country that he just couldn't turn down, and he had to pack his trash and move. He was in many ways one of the stalwarts of the group, he could always be depended on to just be there, and in this kind of company, just  being there counted for a lot. He became incomprehensible to understand when he was deep into his cups, and on more than one occasion I was the only one able to understand a word he was saying. Eventually, he became impossible even for me to translate, and I would have to tell him that "I haven't understand a word you've said in 30 minutes, it's time for you to go home." And, he usually did, muttering something unintelligible, but probably vaguely threatening in our direction, he would stride out of the place like he actually had somewhere to be.  He eventually did have somewhere to be, and that was a place about 2500 miles away from the rest of us. He is deeply missed to this day. Then we were two.

The surviving two of us took at look around at the carnage, and came up with radically different solutions to what they thought was the problem. One of us quit altogether, he put down his booze filled glass one day, declared he was 'off the sauce' and has been seen very rarely since. He is trim, and slim, and all healthy now that he doesn't try to poison himself with alcohol four times a week, but he can be quite a bore. He was a loquacious drunk, which is acceptable, but now he is just a sober guy that talks a bit too much, which isn't nearly as much fun. I can not fault him for taking his chosen path, and he seems to be actually enjoying the sober life, which does boggle my imagination, but I guess there is no counting for taste.  He seems to be happy, and I suppose happiness is hard to find drunk, maybe if you're sober happiness grows on trees.  I don't know, nor do I intend to find out, but I wish him all the best. Then we were one.

As you might have guessed this post is about that one. The one that was left behind. Unlike our sober fellow above this one chose the darker path. I think he chose to attempt to make up for the other six leaving by drinking their share of hooch as well. He did a valiant job of trying, but eventually it became more than he could bear. We didn't fall off of the planet, and the ones of us that stayed around would try to stop his descent down the path of destruction, but we just were not able to. Maybe if we had been around a bit more, or paid just a bit more attention, or just punched him in the mouth a couple of times as a wake up call, things would have been different. But, we didn't or couldn't and things went about as badly as they could have gone.

We couldn't help but feel that, at some fundamental level, we failed him, failed to see what the 'break up' of the group had done to him, failed to realize, that while he may have been the brightest of the lot, he was also the one who had the most demons. And demons are horrible, horrible things. They get inside of your head, and say the most cruel  things, things that aren't close to being true, but you don't know, or want to know that. The sauce has clouded your judgment, and your ability to determine which are true, and which are false. None of us realized that was the battle taking place with our buddy on a daily basis, we were either too wrapped up in our own lives, or just too fucking stupid to pay the required amount of attention. And it was attention that was necessary, attention to the war being waged within his mind on a daily basis  Attention to the war he was losing step by bloody step.  By the time any of us sorted out what was going on it was too late, and we (the ones that could make it) were attending another, much more solemn, ceremony with him. Now there are six of us.

What If?

"You're haunted by the two most dangerous words in the English language, What If?" Now, I am not original enough to make that lovely line up by myself, but I am also not clever enough to remember from where I nicked it. If you can figure that out, please feel free to let me know. Because not only am I haunted by those two words, but the fact that I don' t remember the source is a bit off putting as well.  I figure since this is the last day of this rather undistinguished year, I would toss out some random post to wrap it up in style.

Although style is something that I have rarely been accused of having, and I doubt my vast readership will be sober enough to read this post.  However, regardless of readership, I shall press on to the point. If I have a point that is, I am pretty sure I did when I started this post, but that doesn't mean I will have one by the end of the post. It also doesn't eliminate the idea, that the point I had will not be the point (if any) that I make. I write on the 'fly' as it were, and sometimes the beginning, the middle, and the end of my posts aren't always what I had in my (brutish) mind when I begin to type.

Back to the 'what if' dilemma.  We have all faced these type of problems in our lives, and the end of the year is just as good a time as any to reflect upon the 'what ifs' of our lives. What if I had asked that question? What if the answer had been different? What if the bank had said no? What if I were just a bit smarter or better looking? What if I could do it all over again? What if she had answered the phone? What if I had answered the phone? What if I had turned left instead of right, would she be alive today? What if I had taken the under on the Super Bowl?  There are a million of these little dilemmas that each of us have in our 'luggage.' Shit that we carry around that we can not do one fucking thing about. Things that, barring the use of a not yet invented time machine, we can't not change. However, that doesn't stop us from wanting to, or thinking about the what ifs.

Maybe the results would have been the same no matter what you would have done. That might just be fate fucking with you, sometimes (people say) things are just 'meant to be.' That may or may not be true, and I am not so sure I agree, but it might give you some solace as you lie there awake for what seems like an eternity pondering your life's work.  And it is work, your life, it isn't something that is going to come particularly easy, and it is something that you are going to have to get out  of bed each and every day, put in your shift at it, and live with the results, no matter what they might be. We can not all be winners at the game of life, in my opinion it is at its core a zero sum game, and quite a few of us are just going to have to accept the fact that we lost.  Sometimes the best we can do is to cut our losses, and to hope we get another shot. That is unlikely, but sometimes it is all the hope we can cling to. Everybody gets outplayed once in a while, and even the best of us are beatable given the right set of circumstances.

And, until they call time on the thing you call life you always have a chance to swing the balance back in your favour, unless you just quit trying, which would be a shame. After all that what life is all about, trying. You don't have to have a winning smile or a 'great personality' (though I guess they would help) you just need the grit to keep plugging away. Don't bet on the law of averages, because it is rarely a law, and you are usually going to be determined to be just below average. Just plug away at it, and try to improve your performance, the what ifs will just have to take care of themselves.

Love thy Neighbor?

Since today is a pagan holiday christmas, I figured I would trot out the old 'love thy neighbor' line, and see if it still makes any sense.  Freud thought it was one of the sillier pronouncements of christianity, he thought that for a religion, any religion, to attempt people to some sort of universal love was the height of folly. I have to admit, I am inclined to agree with him. To love everybody as a neighbor is to love nobody very much. My neighbor generally has not proven worthy of my love "I must honestly confess that he has more claim to my hostility, indeed my hatred." (Freud Civilization and Its Discontents).  

And if I look at that statement in its most personal of terms, I agree, my neighbors are raging assholes. Both of my neighbors and I have engaged in a 'battle of the trash can.' One neighbor has, on more than one occasion, 'stolen' my trash can. We all have trash cans, and why he feels the need to steal mine, and attempt to foist his trash can off on me, is unfathomable to me. A long time ago, I wrote a post about my trash can (good old number 1947), and clearly I am not the type of fellow to take this theft lightly. Even painting my house number in LARGE letters on the top and side of my trash can, did not stop my 'loving' neighbor from can napping my trash can. A quick visit, and an exchange of some terse words, did eventually lead to 1947's safe return, but really who steals a trash can? Thus neighbor one has proven himself unworthy of my love.

Neighbor number two is also a raging ass hat, that should be taken out, stood up against a wall, and shot like a dog. In fact the source of the trouble I have with number two is a dog. Their dog to be precise, when they moved into the house on the other side of me there was a fence that connected onto my house. It was not my fence, and it was quite, illegally, protruding onto my property. After several warnings, that were ignored, I hired some grim men with chain saws to remove the offending bit of fence from my property. Number two just did not seem to understand the problem, the fence was the only thing that kept their dog  'penned in' their backyard. Tough shit, get your own fence was my reply, and eventually they did, but not before trying to 'create' a fence of their own by using THEIR trash can (rolled onto my property ) to close the newly minted gap in the fence line.  Not the brightest of ideas, and for over a month I took unmitigated pleasure in coming home, piss drunk, and moving their trash can back to the 'right side' of the property line. They caught onto that trick and tried to built a 'makeshift' fence, I took even more pleasure in drunkenly kicking it down at 3 am. It was a lot of fun, and I miss being able to do it. I miss it because eventually they figured it out and built their own fence along the property line just like a 'good neighbor' should. 

Clearly, I am not going to be asked to do a State Farm commercial anytime soon. I am not a good neighbor, nor do I intend to be. I keep to myself, and all I ask is for you to leave me the fuck alone. It is just that simple, but apparently too complicated for people in my 'hood' to understand. I am going to have to take the side of Freud here, and agree that in my neighbors the idea of love is not a popular one. I do not doubt they could regale you with stories of what a crap neighbor I am as well, but that is their problem. I will not be going over with cookies to make peace anytime soon. Universal love is for people who live in ivory towers. I live in a place surrounded by trash cans, it is called reality, and loving thy neighbor is not going to happen. Merry Xmas, happy holidays, God Jul, bah humbug!

Project of the Second Part

Other than being some important day for a bunch of savages, December 25th is the six month 'turn' on my yearly procession of aging. Meaning I have six months to go before I have to change the second number on my age group list. It makes it for a depressing day all the way around, considering my disdain feelings for 'christmas' (which I have made clear on numerous occasions). 

Other than boycotting all sorts of 'parties' that I am, in spite of my scrooge like exterior, invited to attend, I have been trying to find some project to keep myself occupied during this festive season. Other than knocking over christmas trees bringing good cheer to my fellow citizens.  The idea that I have hit upon is another type of hero project, and is probably more work than I am willing to do, but I thought I would toss it out here, and see if my vast readership one loyal follower would approve of it.  It is a small revisit of my hero posts, except this time I am going to take the hero of the day (whichever day it might be), and discuss what they were doing on their 42nd birthday. Where they were living, where they were in their lives, providing they were still alive, how much longer they had to live, and any other thing I can think of to toss out there. 

I suspect that, for the most part, it will be a depressing exercise, but I never claimed to be all sunshine and lollipops.  I am at least planning this idea with some sort of forethought. It will not start tomorrow, since it requires some actual research, and I am a lazy, lazy man. I don't know if it is a good idea or not, nor if it is worth doing or not. So I am throwing it open to a vote. If you care, please let me know, if not well then to hell with you.

Secrets

Sure it is a bit of a 'tool' song, but it is a pretty good starting point for this post. It is, after all, all about secrets and giving them away. I am sure we all understand that we all have secrets, and giving them all away is one fucking dangerous idea. Freud had his secrets, mostly the identity of his patients. I mean who remembers Ernst Lazner, other than his family members (if any are still alive), but mention the 'Rat Man' and you will get a glimmer of recognition. Or at least that is the hope, if you don't, well then Freud secret is lost on the person, and will remain a mystery to them.

You do not have to be the founder of modern psycho-analysis to have a ton of secrets in your luggage, all you need to be is alive, and paying attention. Although paying attention is not strictly necessary. All you really need to do is be in the right place at the right time, and be able to listen closely. You manage that trick, and you have secrets galore being poured into your ear whether you want to know them or not.  Did you hear that what's his name, and his wife are separated? Or what about Mrs. Y who is married, but rather enjoying fucking two boyfriends? You didn't know that? Well just be sitting on the right bar stool at the right time, and you will find it out soon enough. What about Mr. X, who is in the middle of a very nasty divorce, and still finds time to have a girlfriend. Oh? You didn't know, well now you do, and now you have some dangerous knowledge to use.

Using that knowledge can be dangerous as well, after all, you have secrets too right? No one alive on the planet can fail to have a couple of things they consider to be a 'secret'. Things they would prefer the general public not be privy to.  Like to dress up as a cowgirl, and be tied down in the shower? Pretty sure you don't what that little peccadillo getting out to the world wide web. Like to be covered in peanut butter, and have it licked off by a combination of the family pet, and the pool boy? That is not something you would want the postman to know about you now is it? We all have these secrets, things we would prefer not to have to discuss with people we don't know. However, at some point we told someone, maybe our closest friend, and poof! There goes our attempt at keeping it a secret. Because that is the nature of secrets, they are just so very much fun to share. Usually with the old 'nudge, nudge, hint, hint, wink, wink' don't tell anyone else but I heard so and so about so and so.

In that way secrets become a kind of currency. You know a good bit of juicy gossip about your boss? Trade that little tidbit for an even juicier rumor about the guy in the mail room, and then pass it along later for a kick ass story about the boss's secretary, and midgets.  By now you are knee deep in the rumor mill, and loving ever minute of it, unless of course in your wanderings you happen to hear some awful, awful secret about yourself. It doesn't matter if it is true or not, and it may be quite false, and much less damaging that your real secret, but there you are smacked in the face with some piece of information about yourself that is circulating in the world about YOU. Information that is whispered in a low tone, with narrowed eyes, and a quick glance around to make sure you aren't anywhere within hearing distance. 

You may laugh it off as absurd, or it might hurt your feeling, or worse yet, you might be able to (based on the content alone) be able to trace it back to its source. Either way it is going to be a shock to the system, and something you have to address. After all, you were just the person that people told secrets to, not the person that gave away their secrets like candy at a county fair.  And that is the trick isn't it? Having other people give all their secrets away for nothing. We all want to know stuff, stuff that might be bad, or damaging to other people, but we don't want to give similar information about ourselves away to other people.

If you are clever, or brave, you might feel the need to start a good old fashioned, saw dust on the floor type rumor about yourself, and see how long it takes to get back to you. Also, seeing what form it is in when you hear it again is always instructive. How much has been added or subtracted? Is it the same general rumor, or has it taken on a complete new life of its own? More likely than not, it has changed in some significant way, and you will be aghast at the change, but such is the nature of secrets.



This is the 'secret game' that we all play, and that we all try to avoid as much as possible. The trick to avoiding being a victim of the 'secret game' is quite simple. You have, at least two choices, and which one you choose says a lot about you as a person. Option 1 is that you don't tell ANYONE your secrets, and that means anyone. Your mother, your best friend, your postman, or your priest. NO ONE ever gets the intimate details of your life, that way they can't be used against you. This option is tough, I mean after all if you choose this option is it unlikely that you will get told any secrets about anyone else because you aren't playing the 'game'.  It is a tough option, but probably, in the long run, the best option to pick. Option two (and the one that I generally pick) is just the opposite. That is, to tell everyone that will sit still long enough to listen, EVERY little secret you possess. That way you take yourself out of the rumor mill.  If everyone knows it, then it really isn't a secret now is it? Since it isn't a secret it really isn't worth knowing or repeating, and therefore will probably remove you from the rumor mill. It is a brave choice to make, and requires you to have nerves of steel, because even if you put the secret 'out there' it is always possible that it gets embellished in a not so good way for you. The trick is to not give a shit to show just enough honesty and indifference where giving all of your secrets away just isn't any fun.

As for me, I will continue to quietly sit on my bar stool and listen. Paying attention is free, and you can find out wonderfully juicy information, by just keeping your big mouth shut. I find having a full beer to wrap your lips around helps to keep them from flapping, and it is quite easy to listen and drink at the same time.  Until of course the person pouring out secrets wishes to be paid back in kind, then things get a bit dicey, but alcohol and a stern glance should get you through to the end.  

11 11

There is a line in a song by a band called Something Corporate, that goes "I always check the clock, it's 11:11." Now, I am not sure about two things, first what the hell that line means to the moron who is singing it, and secondly how I came upon such a band. However, I am sure of one thing, and this is going to be a trip into the weirdness that is my mind, so be prepared dear readers.

11/11 as a date is certainly familiar to students of history, and back when I was a younger and more clever lad, I was a student of history, but that is not how the number is important to this particular tale. The important of 11:11 is as a time, at least in the twisted part of the story that I am trying to relate. The date DOES have a significance to me, and people who know me well enough (and where there on that major day in my life), will understand what that importance is, and why the rest of this story freaks me the fuck out a bit.

That day happened a little bit over four years ago, and it was not a date in which I covered myself in glory. It was, upon calm reflection, the day that I made one of the biggest miscalculations of my miserable life.  There were a lot of people who knew me there, and in theory they could have prevented my error, but the reality is they really were not in a position to prevent my mistake. And, it was my mistake, and it is one that I should own, and one that I knew, at the time, I was making. The good news, if there is any good news is that the mistake is mostly over. I say mostly, because there are two lingering issues from the fateful day that continue to 'haunt' me to this day.

This post will only deal with one of those two issues, and it is the weirder of the two. I said that the mistake happen on the day 11/11, but the numbers 11:11 are how I am reminded of the date everyday. You see, I don't wear a watch, I check the time by my cell phone, and my alarm clock. And almost everyday for about 2 years with very few exceptions, I check the time on my cell phone at 11:11 (a.m. usually, but sometimes p.m.), and this is NOT intentional. When it first started happening I thought it was a little odd, but nothing too weird. As it continued to happen it started to freak me out a bit, now that it has been happened for almost 2 years it is beyond weird.

It has begun to become a part of my day, like the daily rituals that we all go through just to get ourselves together to get to work, school, or the horse track, it has become something that I have become to expect to do.  In fact, if I somehow (rarely) manage to miss checking the clock, and it being 11:11, I almost feel disappointed, like I have let myself down in some odd way.  It is almost like a parlor trick, something that I could be local slack jawed gawkers that I could do without trying. I should try it for about a week, and see if I could make enough money to allow me to retire to the south of France. I don't know what this ability curse means to my psyche, mainly because I have too afraid (until now) to think too much about it. I have a feeling that if I did take the time to trundle off to Dr. Kronenburg, he would tell me a few 'home truths' that I would not want to hear. 

Those truths might just be more that I can bear, and I don't like taking on more than I can bear.  I have not done a particularly good job at explaining how weird I find this little phenomenon. It still creeps me out a bit, and when I try to explain it to people, they look at me like I am a mental patient. As I mentioned I don't know what the line in the song meant to that fellow who wrote it, but I am quite sure that he didn't mean for his line to become such a meaningful part of my life. I hope where ever he may be that he is being eaten by crabs proud of himself. 

Disaster

'I hate you, I hate everything about you, I hate your smile, I hate your laugh, I hate what you make me do, and I hate how you make me feel.' These words were just the beginning, of what would become a tirade of epic length, and proportion, launched at me like a heat seeking missile at an invading jet fighter that has invaded enemy airspace. I say 'at me' but that isn't exactly true (or maybe it is). These words could have been aimed in my direction, or I could have just been handed a letter written by a friend's (so to be ex) girlfriend. That is for me to know, and for you to find out (if you care), and I can't give all my secrets away. After all, they are all just my secrets, but a lot of other people's secrets as well, and I don't have their permission to give them away.

Either way, back to the tirade. After that opening salvo, things got much more interesting, and in spite of everything, quite poetic. 'You make my voice shake when I talk about you. People understand, without knowing you, or our history, what you do to me. They listen, but they don't actually have to hear WHAT I am saying, they can tell by the catch in my voice when I say you name aloud the effect you have on me. You make me wonder about the meaning of life, about the meaning of MY life, about why I am here, and about why you are here with me. I sometimes wonder if you are here on this planet for the sole purpose of enslaving me. I wonder is maybe I was put on Earth for the sole purpose of being your victim. You make me shake. You make me wonder how anyone, anyhow, or anywhere could possibly think they have a grasp on reality. You are a dream and a nightmare rolled into one, wonderfully awful package. I wax poetic about you and yours to people who actually know you, but just don't see what I see in you. They shrug their shoulders at my declamations, and make me wonder if perhaps I have lost my fucking mind. I sometimes envision pushing you down a flight of stairs, just to see how your fall would make me feel. You make me want to board a tramp steamer to Norway, and toss my identity over the side as I sail far, far, away from you.'

'I almost did, I had a place booked on a plane to anywhere but here, I had a whole new life, without you, planned out to the finest detail.' Then you called, and asked for the recipe for my mother's apple pie, and I cancelled it all. I hate you for that with the type of passion than an Ottoman emperor reserves for only the most prized member of his seraglio. I tried blaming my friends for not taking me outside, and beating some sense into me, but they told me I am an adult (despite the overwhelming mountain of evidence to the contrary), and I could "take care of myself." I came very close to "taking care of myself" with the strong desire that maybe, just maybe you would have felt some sort of guilt if I had. I now know that you are incapable of feeling guilt. I am not sure what you are capable of feeling, or if you are capable of feeling anything at all.'

Not a lot one can do when faced with this sort of organized assault upon one's self, but sit there and hope that you are going to be able to salvage some small amount of self respect. I mean Hallmark does not make a card for this kind of thing. Nor should they, this should be an experience that is unique to you, and you alone. If you are lucky, the lashing you are receiving will be written down, placed into a plain envelope, and slid under your door at some bizarre time of the night (while you are dead asleep). Tirades are all well and good if they are heated and short, but a true 'dressing down' should be done in writing. That way you can re-read it over and over again to see if you truly deserved it or not. If you survive it, you will probably (hopefully) be a better person, but survival is the first step. You really have no one to blame but yourself, and that is the point. They want you to blame yourself. That is what the tirade (in many ways) is designed to do, get you to blame yourself. It is a very effective tool in the wars that we wage against each other, and people have been doing it for centuries.

Not that that makes you feel any better, you sit there reading those carefully written lines with an ever growing sense of dread, maybe you let out a nervous chuckle, but that is just for show. A well written, carefully planned 'dressing down' is a dismantling, and if done properly leaves you shaking for days. Both for the now damaged sense of self you possess, and for the person wielding the sledgehammer against that sense of self. Because, at the end of the day, you understand that a reply is necessary, and in polite society (of which you claim to be a member) is expected, and you have just been 'put on the clock' as it were. And like most things in life, the timing of answering a tirade is critical. Good luck, you are going to need it.

The Program

We are the Program. We have hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly episodes, and not all of them are enjoyable to watch. Some are sad, some are funny, some are tragic, and some, well some are just plain awful. We don't try to entertain, but if we do that is an added bonus. There is a set number of us, but sometimes the actors change, however the character remains the same. We are all, whether we like it or not, interconnected, and we rely on each other quite a lot. We have a limited amount of resources, and a varied degree of intellect, but we are doing our best. Well, at least that what we like to think. We like to think we are doing our best, but sometimes our best just isn't either our best, or good enough.

When our best isn't our best is where the Program loses focus (much like this blog post will soon), and an unfocused Program is a dangerous Program. We need direction, some of crave direction, but some of us don't take direction well. We are a team, but it is hard to notice it unless you pay strict attention, and you are paying strict attention aren't you? Most of the time if you anger one of us, you anger us all, and sometimes our (collective) anger is awful to behold. The Program (despite several attempts to make us) does not play nice. We don't have to, we are the Program. We aren't nice, and we don't really care too much if you are nice to us. Just be aware we have long memories, memories that go back into the mists of time, when the buffalo were still plenty upon the Plains, and we do not have to forgive, because we certainly won't forget.

The Program is defined by its members, and its members are sometimes defined by the Program. It is all very circular, and sometimes quite confusing, but the Program remains immutable. It was here before you, me, or your dear old gran, and will be here after you, me, and your lovely grandchildren have become food for worms. It is just that simple, the Program will never, ever, be canceled. Poor ratings, or lack of commercial sponsorship will not stop the Program. It might retool, it might come under new direction, but it will not stop. Sometimes the Programs takes you, grinds you up into small, bloody, bits that even your mother would have trouble recognizing, and spits you out. You will not be mourned, or remembered by the Program.

Do not attempt to understand the Program, for the Program does not even understand itself. You would be better off attempting to bail the ocean out with a spoon. The Program is ever math, science, historical, and religious problem that has no solution all rolled up into one tight, little bundle. The Program sometimes resembles a Monad, and there is a post on this blog that explains Monads, feel free to it up, and hopefully you will get the idea. If not, well, the Program doesn't care. The Program doesn't care about you, or me or about anyone in particular, and it certainly doesn't care what you think about it. It doesn't have to, it's the Program. What are you in comparison? To the Program, nothing. Once you sort that bit of good news out, and it will take some sorting, you might get a modicum of understanding of or from the Program. Until you do, the Program will roll over you like Patton's Third Army rolled into Germany. Move if you can, but be prepared to be flattened if you don't move quickly enough.

The Program has its lighter moments, but to get to see THOSE episodes you must be invited. It is an invitation only event when the Program 'lets its hair down', and if you are lucky enough to see it, you will enjoy it. The Program will make sure of that, all you need to do is to sit back, and enjoy the ride. That is if you are lucky enough to see it, the Program does not issue invitations lightly, and you would do well not to ignore that invitation. The Program can, and does on occasion hold a grudge. Much like an Albanian cherishes a blood feud, the Program loves holding a good grudge. Grudges are one thing the Program does very well. The Program has its moments of internecine violence, and sometimes those can be quite ugly, but remember this it will always present an united front to any outsiders, even if it is been racked unto death by inner turmoil.

Do not try to take advantage of the Program, and the Program will not take advantage of you. The Program tries, very hard, to be fair, but be warned fair is almost always a relative term. Fair to you is not always going to be fair to the Program, and the Program knows that, and all sorts of other things that you would be appalled that it knows. The Program possess a great deal of collective knowledge, and is also the home of some very serious individual brilliance, it is a dangerous combination. The Program is not unbeatable, or infallible, but it does not claim to be, it does not have to be, it is the Program. Try it, play it, and maybe even beat it, the Program will be there bright and early tomorrow waiting for a rematch, will you?

Dreamer

I know you, I know you almost as well as you know yourself. I know your habits, you made the mistake of telling me your hopes and dreams, and I have them locked away in my mind, saving them for a 'rainy day.' I know your favourite colour, I know your favourite food. I know that you don't like green peppers, and that you think sushi is disgusting. I know where you've 'buried the bodies,' and I know what you're afraid of. I know the songs that you listen to the most on itunes, and the songs that make you cry. I even turned you on to a few of those songs. I know where you bank, where you buy your shoes, and where you buy your fruit. I know you like honey crisp apples, and not granny smith apples. I know your bra size, your shoe size, and your dress size. I know what length of pants you wear, and what brand of soap you use. I know that you're right handed, and in what country your grandparents where born. I know all of this, and I haven't had to google you, hire a private investigator, or go out of my way to collect any of this information.

I know what languages you speak, and that you are bad at math. I know your mother's maiden name, and if I tried hard enough (but I won't because its creepy) I could probably break your password(s). I know your natural hair colour (even if you don't), and I know the author you read the most, and the one you want to be like (and I know they aren't the same writer). I know where you keep the bottle of vodka that you sometimes need a nip of 'just to get through the day.' I know your birthday, your anniversary (of a lot of things), and the name of the first boy, and girl you kissed. I know what kind of car you drive, and I know how many times you've had surgery. I could probably continue for another twenty pages, but I think you get the point.

I know all of these things, because you've told them to me. Each and every one of these little nuggets you gave to me like an oyster opening wide for the pearl diver that is intent upon removing its treasure. And they are treasures, you know, each of these little tidbits that I have gleaned from you, about you are priceless bit of information. Information that helps me 'know' you, know how you are, how you were, and how you are going to be. That's right, I can predict you, if you were a racehorse, and I could bet on you, I would never have to work again. I can predict your behaviour with amazing clarity, regularity, and accuracy. I say this only because it is true, I am not bragging nor am I demeaning you in any way. I think it is fantastic that I know what you are going to say before you say it, and not for the world would I want you to hold back from saying it.

In the course of our time together you've told me all of these things, and more. While we were inhabiting smoky bars, or walking down crowded city streets, while we were passing the time on a subway ride in Tirana, while boarding a plane in Rome, as we were being mugged in Budapest, or when we were lost in Paris. During all of these times, and more, your hopes, dreams, and fears poured out of you like water out of a punctured gallon jug, and all the while I was there taking them all in, and making a mental checklist that I hoped I would never have to use against you.

I also know you hate suspense, and surprises, and you like to be 'the smartest person in the room.' I know you are way too smart for your own good, and more clever than you let on. I know you think that there is a 'twist in this tale,' and that at some point the tone of this epic is going to change for the worse. I know you can't stand not knowing things, and it is one of your most endearing qualities (up to a certain point). However, I know you, I know you too well, and I know that what will make you the maddest (and therefore, make me the happiest) is letting you ponder all of these things I know about you, and as you lie there in your bed alone, if you are alone, wonder what I am going to do with all of this awful, awful knowledge. For rest assured, I am sitting somewhere, somewhere we both know, somewhere far, far away from you, or any of your numerous minions that are bent upon my destruction. Some safe place from where I can, with impunity, tell you all of these things I know.

Slothful

The creature above, who appears to be giving the camera his version of 'the finger, is a three toed sloth. I suppose that might just be his/her version of the finger, if you only have three fingers/toes who's to say what is the proper way to express your feeling about having your picture taken by some meddlesome jackass with a camera.

Truth is, I don't like having my picture taken either, which is one of the two things I share with the above animal. The second thing is 'sloth' the animal above, for good or bad, has become a synonym for being a lazy bastard. I am not too familiar with the habits of the fellow above, he might be industrious but just slow. However, I am not industrious, nor slow, I am just plain lazy. Which, in many ways, is a terrible, terrible shame. In my previous post, I expressed my amazement that Krudy was about to churn out 17 pages a day of wonderful writing. In the week or so since I wrote that post, I have been thinking about that amazement, and have come to the conclusion that the number is not as amazing as I first believed.

The quantity is still pretty high, and the quality remains miles ahead of anything I could ever put on paper, but I figure that Krudy had a couple of very important advantages, (besides massive amounts of actual talent, which I do not possess). One of those, and perhaps the most important of them, was motivation. Krudy lived by his pen (for the most part at least, sometimes he lived by gambling, and off of admiring women), I live by having an actual job/career which requires my physical presence in my cube, a certain number of hours a week. Those hours either passed by actually doing work, or whiled away wishing I was somewhere, anywhere, else in the world, have a tendency to cut into my writing time.

This previous shackle on my time, also prevents me from living the dissolute live style that Krudy lived. I am doing my dead level best to live the libertine life, but my alarm jolts me awake at 6 a.m. every weekday. That has a chilling effect on my desire to stay out until dawn, drinking myself stupid, and telling my companions 'to come back, and talk some more.' Most of my companions are also gainfully employed, and would not be out drinking until dawn if I paid them, and that is something I am not quite prepared to do. I don't know how much of his output Krudy churned out during those long nights abusing his body with booze, but I suspect that even if he wasn't physically writing down his brilliant words, he was thinking them. I also suspect, that a great deal of his 'material' was found in whichever den of iniquity he was inhabiting.

The relatively few hours I spend in my own dens of iniquity do provide me with a great deal of material as well, though I have yet to learn the 'write this shit down before you get to drunk to remember rule'. There have been any number of blog posts, and 'characters' that have flitted through my life, and my imagination that have been lost to time because of my lack of ambition. Not that I would be able to do them justice, but at least the material would contribute to the 17 page quota that I should be able to meet. Even though I am forced by my economic obligations, and my lack of courage to just throw it all over, run off to Europe, and write or starve, this does not fully exonerate my lack of output.

The second advantage Krudy possess over me is actually more of a disadvantage to me as opposed to an advantage to him. Krudy did not have ESPN, FOX Soccer Channel, Twitter, Facebook, and a myriad of other external time wasters to distract him from his main task of writing. I am sure that he would have dealt with these distractions better than I do, but the fact that they are they is a huge problem for me. Clearly, being a lazy bastard, I can plop my ass down on my couch for hours, and watch American football, futbol, or women's curling without having a single thought worth writing down in my head. It is something that I despair of, but have been unable to control for quite some time.

Common sense tells me I should take the leap, cut the cable, and then just see if I can manage to increase my 'output'. Reality tells me that would last a week before I went crazy from boredom, or just starting spending even more time at a pub that has a Television. This advantage/disadvantage is entirely a product of my time, but it is something that I should be able to overcome. If, as I mentioned before, I wasn't such a lazy bastard. Since I am a lazy bastard, and I also don't take my writing particularly seriously, I am unable to break out of this vicious circle, and 'create' a blog post in a very sporadic fashion. These two issues aren't solely responsible for my lack of output, there is the argument to be made (and it is quite valid) that since I have not spoken aloud to another human being in two whole days, I should have loads, and loads of time on my hands in which to write something down. It is a very valid argument, and one which I have no valid rebuttal except to reiterate that I am a lazy, lazy bastard.


I am not as lucky, or as good a gambler as he was, nor do I have an army of admiring ladies to offer me financial support (amongst other things), but that is no excuse for being a sloth, and I am sure Krudy had his own set of outside distractions that may have lowered his production. I also suspect that, if he were alive, he would tell me to 'quit fucking whining, and get busy writing, or just give it up altogether.' Of course, he would tell me that in Hungarian, and I would probably look at him like he was as mad as a March hare, but in any language the point would be made. The good news is, if there is any good news to be found here, is that I have somehow managed to have turned being lazy into quite a lengthy blog post. I am not sure, since I am an American, but I am willing to believe that this fits the definition of irony.

Sunflower

I know, I know, this looks like some hero post part deux, and in some ways it is. The fellow above is one Gyula Krudy, and he is one of the best writers I have EVER read in my life. If you only read one (more) book this year, make it 'Sunflower' by Krudy. It is good enough to make you want want to weep. It is one of his few works that have been translated from the original Hungarian to English, and it worth whatever amount you pay for it. He writes so well that I have considered learning Hungarian just so I could read more of his works. He is quite simply that good, and you won't regret reading him.

If you do regret reading 'Sunflower' then I fear for the state of your soul, providing you have a soul. The book is so good that it doesn't even really have a plot (Krudy wasn't big on plots), and you don't even care. The writing, the characters, and the stories are so good that a lack of an overall plot is hardly noticed at all. Krudy was remarkable, he wrote his first articles for a local newspaper at the age of 16! 16, and published try that on for size. His father wasn't impressed, and attempted to get young Krudy to get some schooling, and learn a trade. That kind of life didn't appeal to him overmuch, so he ran off to Budapest to become a poet.

He didn't become a poet in the strictest sense of the word, but some of his sentences are mind numbingly good. I lack the words to explain to you how good he is, and I can only hope you find out for yourself. It might help to know a few little tidbits about him before you read him, those I can provide because they require very little imagination or writing skill. Feel free to Google him if you wish, because my few tidbits are just that, tidbits, and will not do him justice.

First thing is that he was a drunk, a true drinker's drinker. A man who drank country wine out of a carafe, but a man that few ever saw drunk. He was a nocturnal animal, and vice ridden. His biggest three were wine, woman, and gambling. He loved cards and horses, and with it came to his vices he always chose outsiders. In this way, we are very much alike, I love a good long shot at the track, and I love a good flake in the world of women. I wish I would have inherited 1/10th of his talent instead of 100% of his vices, but I guess the fates were against me. He was the guy who would keep your drunk ass out to dawn, and when you tried to sneak off, he would stop you and tell you to 'come back and talk some more.' And you would because he was Krudy, and you didn't deny him that type of request. He was quite the ladies man, and had a wife and children which he treated shamefully. I doubt he would be overly popular in today's PC world, but this was Budapest in the early 2oth century, and he wasn't overly criticized for his behaviour.

He would tell the numerous ladies in his life that 'he needed to be alone.' That he 'needed solitude' in order to conjure up the wonderful stories that were lying just under the conscious part of his mind. Perhaps the drink, and the solitude gave birth to all those lovely stories he wrote. The admiration I have for his talent is immense, and is made all the greater by the fact that he set himself a quota of 17 pages a DAY! He would write his 17 pages in whatever pub he was drinking on credit, get a cab to the nearest newspaper that would buy them, turn them in to the editor (without corrections) to be published, get his stipend for the pages, and go back to the pub. If only I could do that, just the once.

Times sort of passed him by, but he didn't quit writing, nor did he quit drinking or playing the ponies. He came to a bit of a sad end, one that would be worthy of writing a story about. Which a fellow author (Sandor Marai) did, and published it as a book (which has yet to be translated into English), all he left besides some of the greatest literature in the world, was some shabby clothes, an incomplete pack of cards, some books, and some racing forms that were years out of date. It was a 'good death', it was our kind of death.

Good News?

As I mentioned in the previous post (quick go read it, and come back, I will wait) last week I decided to 'go off the rails' a bit, and drink like a Roman Emperor. I have yet to total up the damage done either to my bank balance, my liver, or my relationship(s) with some of my fellow humans, but I am sure it is as high as a Georgia pine. People who know me, or people who used to know me know that I have a local. I actually have two locals because one isn't enough to handle the full force of my personality. However, I have been 'branching out' a bit as of late, and have acquired another place in which to drink myself stupid.

I am a man of habit, many talents, and a firm belief that you can never be friendly with too many bartenders. A good bartender is almost, if not more important that a good doctor. I mean you don't have to make appointments to see your bartender, and none of the multitude of the bartenders I know have ever asked me to turn my head and cough. They take it on faith that I have the present ability to pay the enormous tab I am running up in their establishment, and a couple of them have even let me 'bounce' on a tab when I became to drunk, or they were too busy, for me to pay. It is a proud moment in a drunks life when he walks INTO his bar for the first drink of the night only to be told he already has a 40 dollar tab from the night before. 'I knew you would be back, so I just let you go' where the words that my bartender greeted me with on that occasion, my father, rot him, would have been so very proud.

All of this is just a set up for the news I received on my last expedition in my second local that I made on Saturday night. Wing man in tow, I was drinking myself into a stupor when a oddly familiar voice called my name. I was a bit bleary eyed, but when I turned to the sound of the noise I was happily surprised to see one of my 'old' bartenders, one that I had not seen in almost 2 years. I was quite shocked to see him in the place, he had left to start his own bar, and I figured that he was gone for good. Plus, his parting, like most people at this bar, was not on the best of terms. A series of sad events that were beyond his control resulted in him losing his bar, and I was quite excited to hear that he had been re-employed at my bar.

Drinks were ordered all around, and some time was spent 'catching up.' Then a sort of horrible realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I think the major impetus for this moment of horror was I was just wrapping up a six day drunk, but as I sat there and reminisced about old times, I concluded that this news, while joyful for my buddy, might be fatal to me. He is a GOOD bartender, a fair bartender, and (most importantly) an attentive bartender, very rarely did I ever have to wait longer than 7 seconds for my empty drink to be magically replenished.

The 'bad' part to this tale of woe is quite simple, I have been drinking like a fish at this bar with a series of inferior barmen (and women) since this fellow left, now that he has returned I can only imagine that my drunken behaviour will increase fivefold, and I am not sure that my liver (even though I have recently been turned onto the wonderful healing powers of milk thistle), or my bank account will survive. I guess this is a simple problem of be careful what you wish for, because I have bemoaned his absence on more than one occasion. I guess this post is a bit of a drunkard's prayer (which is more than just a cornball song by a band called Over the Rhine), it is simply this let's hope my bank account lasts longer than my liver, because doctor's need to be paid as well, and transplants aren't free.

I'm OK, You're OK?

"Are you OK?" That was the question one of my fellow citizens directed towards me on the Tuesday night of this week. Generally, that simple question, one that we get asked numerous times in our lives, would not be worthy of commenting upon, but as with most things with me lately it is all about context.

That context is the reason that the question was, for me at least, another low point in my life (seems I have having a lot of low points recently). Tuesday was the night before a legal conference, which I was required to attend, began in my fine city. In other words, I didn't have to go to work the next day, but I did have to attend the conference, since the conference's start time was about 2 hours later than I generally get to work, then I figured I might have a few drinks with some buddies.

That day's drinking began a bit earlier than usual, and it was the first day of a week that has seen me eat, drink, and be merry like a Roman emperor. I figure I have gained 6 pounds this week, so next week, I will be eating like a Roman slave, but at least this week has been entertaining. The drinking was going as planned, and it was looking like another night that would find me bleary eyed the next morning. However, as with most of the plans that I am involved in, things went a bit off script rather quickly. A change of my drinking plans ensued (I asked a question I didn't know the answer to, and my drinking was curtained, serves me right).

The new plan entailed me not drinking like my ship was sinking, and I had to drink all the rum before it was too late, and sobriety began to rear its ugly head. That being said, I am not sure my next career move was a product of my residual buzz, or just extremely poor judgment. Either way it was a piss poor decision, and I was duly punished for it. It is a long story, and isn't worth getting to deep into right now, but it would soon provide me the reason for the above quoted question. Keep it mind, the is TUESDAY! Not generally a day that finds you facing the kinds of life tragedies that make you feel like you need a Greek chorus following you around to help narrate your life.

Again, I was foolish enough to ask a (very lengthy , and important) question that I did not know the answer to, and I was, once again, duly punished. It was this punishment, and my resulting reaction to it, that sent me reeling down the street in one direction while the person delivering the blow walked calmly off in the other direction. I decided that taking one of the convenient seats provided for citizens of my fair city by the city fathers, would be a good idea. A few moments of calm reflection were clearly going to be needed, and I also had to find some sort of cash dispensing machine, because my car was in 'hock' to a parking garage.

As I sat there wondering where that cash was going to be obtained, and feeling a bit like Lupus from 'The Bad News Bears,' a fellow citizen decided that it was imperative to speak to me. Of course, it was my own fault, it was 10 p.m. on a Tuesday in downtown shit city, and I was just begging to be panhandled. In retrospect, I guess I am lucky that I wasn't swarmed by panhandlers like a sugar cube in an ant farm. The one 'bum' that did manage to get his 'handle' on asked me for a cigarette, and wasn't even upset when I informed him of the bad news, that I am a non-smoker. To my surprise he merely thanked me and turned away to try his luck elsewhere. Well, clearly my demeanor must have been awful, because he stopped turned back around, and asked me with dead seriousness in his voice "Are you OK?" I am sure the shock was evident on my face as I replied 'I'm fine thanks.'

Which bring me to the eventual point of this post. The fellow was nice enough, and just because he is what is commonly called a 'bum' he was still human enough to notice that a fellow human seemed to be having a bit of a rough moment. Which was true, but I was unaware that I was so obvious about it. However, while I have grown to appreciate his humanity, it was still a low point in my life. If I look so bad that bums are asking me if I am OK, then my life has clearly taken a wrong turn. It certainly changed the focus of my calm reflection, and perhaps that it something I should be thankful for, it became much more focused on the whole of my situation rather than merely the disastrous episode that had just occurred.

I suppose that is the thing to be thankful for, a polite 'bum' that is willing to take the time to find out if maybe the fellow he just tried to cage a ciggy off of, was going to be a bridge jumper. Maybe he didn't want that on his conscious, or maybe he thought that if he asked, I would find some forgotten cigarette, or some cash for him ( I didn't so unlucky for him), or maybe he just thought that a bit of humanity was called for. I didn't have the heart to tell him 'I am far, far, from fucking OK.' That was the closest to humanity I could come, and I hope he appreciated it.

Over Due Part II

Of the 366 heroes of the day,

276 or 75% are dead

and 84 or 23% are still alive.

Those who are not still alive died at an average age of 62.9 years, a bit surprising, I figured it would be younger than that.

Over Due Part I

Since it has been over two months since the ending of the hero parade, this information is long overdue, but I am lazy.

We will start this with the easy part.


Of the 366 heroes

339 or 93% were Male (guess I am a sexist pig, big surprise there)

21 or 5% were Female

and

6 or 2 % were Things (i.e. words, things, animals)

Hiver

'I do not ever want to speak to you again,' then the loud 'click' of the phone being hung up on me with a fierce determination. The dial tone didn't have much to say to my reply, which was just as well since my reply is not really fit for publication (at least in a non R rated forum). After a few seconds to realize what had just occurred, I hung up, shrugged my shoulders, and crossed her name off of my xmas list. I mean, she sounded pretty serious, and she was usually pretty good at doing what she said, not at all the type to hold in her emotions, which I figured was probably a large portion of our problem.

Being the unemotional type (her words,not mine, but I didn't deny the accusation when it was made), I had sorted out that our 'styles' were probably going to clash eventually, but I didn't figure that it would lead to the complete break down of all communication. Being the optimistic type, I kept her contact information just in case, I mean you never know when you are going to need bail money, and options are good to have just in case. And, if you have true friends, you won't be able to call them for bail money because they will probably be in the same holding cell that you are. Thus, keeping someone's number, who while not a fan of yours, might still feel enough pity for you to get you out of a tight spot (though the cost will be quite high), is not the worse plan to have.

Now the above glimpse into my life would not either be so bad, or so interesting (if it is interesting), if that had been the first time it had happened to me. Sadly, it was not, and it was not even the first time recently. It was the third time such a thing has happened, and since it happened recently, I am beginning to detect some sort of trend where things might just be 'me not them.' Each of them ended under similar circumstances (although a couple of them put more colourful language into their declaration of our relationship independence). All three were lovely girls, and each of them had their reasons for never wanting to speak to me again, the foremost being I am 'a raging jackass' (that seemed to be the underlying theme in each case).

Unfortunately, after a long think, a few Internet searches, and a couple or three beers, I was unable to find a cure for being a jackass that did not include ceasing to exist. Since that route seems a bit drastic for the situation(s) at hand, I figured that I would just have to get out of the house more often and meet 'replacement' people. I quickly determined this to also be a bit of a shit plan, since me and people just seem to have entire day's worth of misunderstandings, and just went out and bought a 1200 page book to fill up my (now free) time, and to hopefully avoid these types of 'misunderstandings' for the near future.

Misunderstandings or not, I took each of these people at their word. They had each, independently of one another, expressed the strong desire, and in no uncertain terms, of never wishing to communicate with me again. Fair enough I suppose, I can not imagine that my presence in any one's life is a necessity, and therefore I figured they would live 'happily ever after.' Therein lies the rub, 'ever after' means exactly that both 'ever' (i.e. never), and 'after' (i.e. again). Saying you never wish to speak to or see me again is fine, I can understand that wish, and in some ways I applaud the decision. To be quite honest, some relationships need to just end without the hope of revival. Years may pass, but the death of those types of relationships should be permanent. There is no need for a reopening of old wounds, or a digging up the corpse of the relationship to determine the cause of death. It died of its own causes, and no further examination is necessary. In my opinion, it is usually best if both parties sign the death certificate, but if one party is really determined, one signature is usually sufficient.

In all three of my above mentioned cases, one signature was enough, though in one case I would have signed if they would have told me that I could have. My signature wasn't there on the other two, and one of them didn't bother me at all. I might not have signed it, but I was pretty indifferent as to the relationship ending. The last one didn't have my signature either, and truth be told, I was saddened by the loss. It was mostly my fault (take that to mean it was all my fault), and maybe one day I will explain that further. However, for our purposes here that is all we need to know. It is the two other 'deaths' that concern us here, and the fact that it seems my relationships have a zombie like quality (meaning they are hard as shit to kill).

Case A (pick a name if you want, it won't be her name, and it doesn't matter), was the one that died over the phone. A fairly impersonal, but quick way of doing things, and one that I accepted. Calling someone that has just hung up on you with that last sentence is very rarely a good idea, and besides she was the 'take the phone off the hook' kind of girl. Fair enough, she sounded serious, she seemed serious, and she was serious, for about six months. Then out of the blue, as I am minding my own business, and not bothering a soul (it does happen once in a while), I get a text from her. 'Hey' that was it just hey, nothing else just three little letters, one little innocent word. No explanation as to why I got it, no apology (if I deserved one is debatable), and no reason why six months later I was suddenly worth talking to again. It was a bit like the six months of silence did not happen, from that 'hey' we just sort picked up where we had left off in our relationship. It was odd, but then again she is odd, and I am odd, so odd is pretty much par for the course.

Case B (again pick a name, any name will do), was a bit more entertaining, and had the 'decency' to tell me to my face that 'I never want to fucking see you again, get out of my sight!' She was also very clear, and used plain English (and a dramatic gesture or two), that she had no desire to ever set eyes upon my person again. Once again, more my fault than hers, and fair enough. I got the message, and slunk away to lick my wounds, and to begin to ponder why it is I do to inspire such passion (and not in a good way).

Two weeks later, guess who shows up in my life? You guessed it case B, it was odd for about 30 seconds (at least for her), but it seems that all was forgiven. It also appears that it is VERY easy to get mad at me, but slightly more difficult to stay mad at me. I am not sure how I feel about that. Since I like a good grudge like an Albanian likes a blood feud, I almost prefer someone to actually stay mad at me for a bit. At least they are sticking to their word. After all, never means never right? Unless 'they' have significantly changed the meaning of the word never without telling me, then something is horribly wrong with both of the 'cases' outlined in this post.

And then what is the protocol here? How do you pick up the pieces of a 'broken' relationship so quickly. I mean if two weeks, days, or months ago it was determined that I was just this side better of cancer, then what happened to improve your opinion of me? I certainly didn't change, and seeing the error of my ways become some 'better' version of myself. I have been working on that, and I can say with some confidence, failing at it. I am not a 'better' version of myself at all, I am the same 'version' just X amount of time older. Nothing about me has improved, and it has only probably gotten worse since you decided that you had had your fill of me. Having enough of me is a decision that I can respect. Coming back after saying 'never again' is something I have a problem with.

Which brings us to Case C, our third, and (so far) final contestant in the get fucking rid of me game. I know I promised not to mention it, but hey its my blog and I will write epics if I want to, you don't have to read them you know. This one was a lot simpler, a lot shorter, and in many ways, a lot sadder. Details of it are a bit fuzzy, and I am sure memories would be vastly different depending on which one of us you asked as to what happened, but the end result is the same. Over and done with, in a slightly less dramatic fashion, but done with nonetheless. I am not sure I wanted this one to be over with, but I understand why it needed to end, and that it was going to have to end sooner or later, but I wasn't quite prepared for it to be the 'sooner' bit.

The major difference with case C, and the reason I have vastly more respect for that person is she meant it. Never meant never to her, and I haven't spoken to her since the funeral rites were read over the casket of our 'relationship.' In many ways that is quite awesome, and in many ways it is quite sad. It is awesome because it shows that at least she was a woman of her word, and is not likely to change her mind, and she shouldn't. If she were to pop back into my life now, I would lose a lot of my admiration for her. It is sad because it shows how, at least on this point (and a couple of others) how truly compatible we were. Not compatible enough to keep the relationship alive, but compatible enough to make it interesting while it was. And that makes it all the sweeter, like apple pie and ice cream on a hot July day.

Case C is, mostly, the point of this epic. If you are going to 'think of someone only in the past tense' then you should stick to it. Expressing the desire to NEVER speak to another person again is the little red button on the console of interpersonal relationships. It is mutual assured destruction, not something to be trifled with, and not something to be used at someone because they bought the wrong type of milk. Not something to be used on a daily basis, but something to be brought out only when absolutely necessary. It should not be used in the heat of passion, but only after calm, icy, reflection. After all, it is some serious shit, and the person you are using it against might just take you at your word. When nuclear winter hits a relationship it taints everything, and if anything survives , it is probably so mutated so as to be unrecognizable. 'C' did that for us, she turned that key, entered the code, and pushed the red button. The resulting mushroom cloud and fallout killed our relationship as dead as dead can be, and it isn't coming back to life ever. Which is in some strange way, the best possible ending of any of the sad tales in this story. I guess the lesson to be learned is that all things end badly, or else they wouldn't end.

Lime

To quote Coleridge, ". . . this lime tree bower; my prison." It is not quite as dire as that either for Coleridge when he wrote those words over a century ago, or for me, but I needed some dramatic flair for the opening line of this blog post. Although not as dire as prison, I do feel something akin to how Coleridge felt all those years ago. He was forced to stay beneath his lime tree, and watch his companions enjoy a lovely day without him. Hence, the poem, and hence the reason for him writing it.

There are no lime trees where I live, and I am mobile (except for being very sore from soccer practice) so I could just trundle my ass around where ever I wanted to go, if I had somewhere to go, but I don't. I sit here in my own mental lime tree bower trying to sort out what to do with my free time. There are piles and piles of books on a chest next to me that are demanding my attention, and certainly the trees that are still alive on my own little half acre of hell are shedding their leaves like a stripper at a high dollar bachelor party. At some point, they are going to have to raked by my yard staff (i.e. me), but for now I sit here pondering exactly what to do with the time that I have to waste.

Writing this post will pass some of those idle moments which seem prone to led me into mischief, but it can only achieve so much. After all, it is just a little blog post, and shouldn't try to get above its station. It has only a limited purpose, and a limited shelf life. One it shouldn't try to exceed, and the other it shouldn't try to last longer than its 'sell by' date. The problem is that its content is limited by several things, and I will leave it to your imagination (providing you have an imagination) to figure out the limiting parameters. While not a lime tree bower, and not exactly a prison, this post, this forum, this way of 'communicating' my, ever so brilliant, thoughts has severe limitations. Limitations that have shortened this blog post by several pages, much to the delight of my more attention challenged readers I am sure.

Limitations so severe that my inability to articulate them, becomes another limitation, thus making the circle of this particular medium complete. How to best explain, what it is that I can't explain? How to best explain why it is that I can't explain? I am not like Bruno Antony, in Hitchcock's 'Strangers on a Train', a very clever fellow, and therefore cannot explain what there is to explain. Perhaps if I were a clever fellow, or a more talented writer, or a man with more ability to obfuscate, then I could write something that would explain it all, and my equally clever readers would be able to sort it out. However, I'm not, and therefore, the cleverness (or lack) of my readers does not get to be tested. Lucky you, dear reader, you do not have to take the test that I, quite obviously, and with some aplomb, have so spectacularly failed.

Dear Me

After celebrating Thursday like it was the end of the world, I tottered home to quietly pass out in my bed, and snore away the hours until work forced me to get out of bed. However, it seems that the farce that passes for my life wasn't entirely done with me for the evening. A difficult (at least the parts of it I remember) phone conversation, led me to stagger out of my living room in the bathroom, where awaiting me was a very large mirror image of myself. One dirty look at myself was all it took to set me off on myself. There I was, drunk as a lord sneering at my reflection in the mirror. He (my reflection that is) sneered back, and since I didn't care for that I decided to give him, err I mean me, a bit of a dressing down.

It was a lot of things, but the one thing I am certain of was that it was just fucking awful. Only a person who has reached a certain level of intoxication, and fueled by the recently concluded difficult conversation can give himself the blow dryer treatment. I started with my looks, of which according to me, I should not be proud, I pointed out all the surface flaws, and found quite a few of them, with my person and did so in some very 'glowing' terms. I don't want to repeat what I found these appearance flaws to be, because one look at me (if you happen to see me) will give you a general idea what I focused on (with the limited focus I was able to muster). It was like having on anti-beer goggles. Whereas the women get better looking when I am that tipsy, I seem to get a whole LOT uglier, at least in my own estimation. It was not pretty, and I mean that both as a pun, and truthfully.

Perhaps things would have been better if I had stopped there, I mean a few coarse words about one's slovenly, ape-like appearance might sting a bit, but it isn't something that is going to deal any lasting damage to my psyche. However, since I am in fact, a total jackass, I could just let my appearance flaws be the only flaws of mine that I wanted myself to know about. Emboldened by the hurt look I had managed to make myself have by pointing out my own ugliness, I then proceeded to start at the top and tear myself completely down. It was a demolition job that would have done a stick of dynamite proud.

The worse part about it all, other than the fact it happened, and it happened in the toilet, was that I achieved a minor miracle. One that I am not too sure I should share, and one that I am none too proud of, it seems that while I was gleefully pointing out to me all the awful character traits I possess, I made myself cry. Isn't that just wonderful? I hurt my own fucking feelings. It was both extremely funny, sad, stupid, and pathetic all at once. The other problem, as if I didn't have enough problems already, is/was that this morning when I staggered out of bed, and trundled off to work, I remembered pretty much every bad thing that I said to/about myself. In the harsh (and with my hangover it was harsh) light of day, I was able to revisit all those awful things I said about me to me, and was still unable to deny the truth of any of them.

I would like to say that it was a experience in character building, and if anyone need to build character it is me, but I think the tear down job was so expertly done, and so meekly resisted that any attempt to rebuild is going to have to put on hold for a while. I didn't quite sow the ground with salt, but I certainly came close to replicating the damage that Rome did to Carthage. I guess there is no critic as harsh as yourself, and yourself drunk, and already a bit pissed off at you, is just plain awful. I mean, for fuck's sake, I made MYSELF cry. That is something to both be proud and ashamed of all at once. I had thought about writing some of these flaws down in some self-indulgent fit of pique, but I decided that perhaps that isn't the best idea. Because, after all, I may be sober, but who knows if the same reaction won't happen again, and making myself cry both sober, and drunk on back to back days, is just more than I can bear.